


Moriarty's Pets

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran and Addison Cassidy had seen each other several times while doing their jobs, but they only actually met once. He tried to smother her with her own pillow and she tried to poke his damn eye out, and all because of the hit Moriarty had issued--his new pet must kill the old one to prove loyalty. </p>
<p>The real question isn't if Seb will go through with it, it's if he can survive Addy's dirty tricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moriarty's Pets

The first time Moran laid eyes on Addison was when he was first getting started in his new line of work. He was in his late twenties, set up on a roof with his rifle positioned, the butt of it held snugly against his shoulder. He kept his breathing even, adrenaline tightly controlled, heartbeat steady. Using his scope, he's able to see the fat man coming out on the balcony, seating himself in one of the folding chairs with the morning paper.

Moran moved his index finger to the trigger, the laser attached to his rifle highlighting the business section, right over the other man's heart. As he was trained to do—purely instinct now—Moran held his breath as he readied to squeeze—

And then the fat man went rigid for a second, crimson spraying from a hole in the man's neck; the newspaper fluttered to the ground, the man's head fell forward, and his body slumped in the chair as death claimed him.

Moran's blond brows furrowed as he readjusted himself, peering through the scope to his second choice as a nest, spotting a small form clad in black with their own rifle. Not missing a beat, the other sniper did the same as Moran; not sliding another shell into the rifle or readying to shoot, just observing another of their kind. And then the person sat up a little, their lipstick the same shade as the crimson now soaking into the fat man's white robes, their lips quirking up in a smile as the sniper brings a lit cigarette to her lips.

Moran could feel his finger twitching lightly against the trigger, the beast inside him screaming for him to take her out, but then she'd slid further down, taking the rifle with her and crawling to the large metal door set into the roof, the same door Moran had used when he cased the place just a week ago.

He released his held breath, sliding the bolt back and taking the shell out, sliding it into his pants pocket before starting to disassemble the weapon and storing it in his duffle. How would he explain this one to his boss? 'Sorry, someone has a quicker finger.' Yeah, he wasn't getting paid tonight.

The next morning, in his hotel room, he saw the news coverage of the assassination. The cameras were pointed up at the correct balcony, but it didn't show what must have been a grisly scene—Moran knew for a fact that there would be a lot more blood than usual since it had been the carotid artery that was hit, plus the mess of excrement that always came after death. Police were searching all the roofs, but they found nothing that would help them.

Investigators were frustrated.

Moran was intrigued.


End file.
